We’ll never see the purple leaves again,
our plum-coloured, front garden camouflage.
The whole world can see us now.
The window is streaming with condensation.
Do tree surgeons ever get commissioned
to tear down things that aren’t dying?
I would hate to see a baker
throw a freshly cooked baguette into the bin.
We went to bed without thinking
we had to even think about goodbyes.
I could feel the embarrassment
of the grubby, orange climbing harness,
hugging the trunk still
as the man he was keeping alive
finished the job.

© Carl Burkitt 2020